A Scandalous Wedding

Pretty Samantha Northrup knew her duty was to marry, but this orphaned vicar's daughter wanted to be swept off her feet by someone whose kisses made her toes curl. She never dreamed her orderly life would be turned upside down when a mysterious stranger came knocking on her door one stormy night. And when they were found in a compromising position, she found herself marrying a man she barely knew... but couldn't resist.

A Not So Convenient Marriage

What Samantha doesn't know is that her unknown bridegroom is Yale Carderock, the disinherited son of a duke, banished by his father years before. Now the prodigal has returned—rich, but only somewhat reformed. Yale is bewitched by his bride's innocent fire, and he knows he's powerless to resist her awakening sensuality. But is this outcast from society worthy of her tender love?

The persistent banging woke Samantha Northrup from a sound sleep.

She lay in bed, hoping it was only another of the vicarage's many loose shutters being buffeted against the side of the house by the north wind. A visitor in the middle of the night meant bad news.

"Wake up in there!" a man's voice shouted. "I need help!"

The man's words, and years of serving the parish's needs, roused Samantha. She threw a heavy wool shawl over her flannel nightdress, slipped her feet into a pair of old boots, and shuffled out of the bedroom into the kitchen.

The small house was attached to St. Gabriel's Church, a stone Norman building that had weathered many a Northumberland winter, although this one promised to be colder than most. Samantha shivered as a draft skittered up beneath her nightdress.

Her visitor pounded on the door again, the force of the blows making the heavy cedar door shake.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she said crossly, her words coming out in little puffs of frigid air. No fire burned in her hearth. Not at night, when she could conserve fuel by sleeping under a mountain of blankets.

She lit a candle and glanced at the clock on the sideboard. It was shortly past midnight.

Samantha could usually tell who was outside by peeking out the window to the side of the door. However, the night was too dark for her to make out anything but the man's tall shape. He could be any of a number of the villagers.

He was just starting to knock again when she threw back the bar, opened the door—and found herself staring into the eyes of a tall, dark stranger.

She immediately attempted to close the door.

The man had anticipated her move and put his foot in the door so she couldn't shut ft. He was tall, broad shouldered, with a headful of dark hair and glittering, angry eyes. She didn't know how she could have thought he looked like any of her friends or neighbors.

He didn't force the door open but held his ground.

"What is it you want?" she asked through the crack in the door.

"I want the keys to the Ayleborough vault."

Samantha almost laughed in his face. "Are you daft? Those keys are for the family only. Besides, it is the middle of the night."

The stranger's voice hardened with determination. "I want the keys." He spoke in the clear, concise English of an educated man. But she bristled at his high-handed attitude and was all too conscious of the slight lilting burr of the northlands in her voice.

"You cannot have them without the permission of the duke of Ayleborough," Samantha answered, with an authority gained from years of making grown men cringe in guilt and recalcitrant schoolboys swallow cod oil. She attempted to close the door but he pushed it with his shoulder, throwing it open and shoving her aside.

He was so tall, he had to stoop or hit his head on the low ceiling. His presence filled the room. "I want the keys."

Another woman might have quaked from fear—and the truth be known, Samantha's knees were shaking—but she was six-and-twenty, a woman in charge of her life. The Vicarage of St. Gabriel's had been responsible for the Ayleborough family vault for almost two centuries. It was a sacred trust between the vicar and the noble family that paid St. Gabriel's benefice, and she would not betray that trust.

She moved around the table, wanting to put something between herself and this intruder. The candle's wan light cast ghoulish shadows behind him. "You can't have them."

The stranger's eyes narrowed. "I must not have heard you correctly," he said in a low, silky voice. His gloved fingers opened and closed menacingly.

Samantha's throat went dry, but if need be, she'd die to protect those keys....

Cathy Maxwell spends hours in front of her computer pondering the question "Why do people fall in love?" The question remains for her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful Virginia with children, horses, dogs and cats.